Pretty is as Pretty Dies (A Myrtle Clover Mystery) (4 page)

A GNOME VILLAGE MIRACULOUSLY mushroomed overnight in
Myrtle's yard while Red slept. Ceramic gnome characters, all engaged in a variety of cute activities, graced her front lawn. Elaine
walked past her kitchen window. She blinked. "Oh Lord. Your mom's
called out the gnome patrol, Red. What did you do?"

"What?" Red pushed the curtain aside. He groaned and pressed
his hands against his eyes, hoping when he opened them the image
of a hundred ceramic gnomes cluttering his mother's yard across
the street would have vanished. He was disappointed.

"Red, what did you do to your mother?" asked Elaine. Displaying her gigantic gnome collection in her front yard was Myrtle's
favorite way of expressing her displeasure with her son. "It must
have taken her all night to drag all those things out of the shed.
She could have broken her neck!"

Red turned back around to face the narrowed eyes of his wife,
lampooning him with visual darts. "Nothing! I didn't do..." He stopped. "I signed her up for United Methodist Women and Altar
Guild."
"

I thought you said that was her idea!"

"She's bored again, Elaine, and you know that means trouble."

"She won't be all that bad," demurred Elaine.

"She won't? Remember when she wrote the blistering editorial
to the Charlotte Observer?"

"Which one?" asked Elaine.

"That's what I mean! She goes off half-cocked on some random topic and gets everybody all stirred up."

"Well, we don't live in Charlotte anyway. It's not like people are
snickering at us behind our backs at the Piggly Wiggly."

"She's caused plenty of trouble here, too, you know. Remember
the uncivil unrest she sparked at Greener Pastures Retirement
Home?" demanded Red.

Elaine did. Once when Myrtle visited a friend there, she'd spearheaded a protest against the assigned seating in the dining hall. "At
your age you should sit where you please," she'd sniffed. This
spawned hurt feelings from those happy with their seating assignments and indignation from those who wanted to sit where they
chose. They had to bring in the Methodist minister to mediate.

Red sighed. "Whenever she has too much time on her hands,
she worries over the little things in life."

Elaine guiltily remembered her hours obsessing over sippy cups.

"She'll meddle in other people's business-organize sit-ins to
protest late garbage pickup ... who knows what she might do with
a lot of extra time on her hands? She could use that extra time for
the community good," Red rationalized.

"Arranging flowers in the sanctuary?"

Red knew he wouldn't win this one. Plus, Elaine looked like she
was working herself up into a real snit-one that might carry over
into their chicken pot pie supper that evening. Or their American
Idol snuggling-up-time on the sofa together. Or even ...

"What do you want me to do?" he pleaded, palms held up in
supplication.

"Apologize to your mother. Send those gnomes packing-before people really do snicker at us at the Piggly Wiggly."

Red picked up the cordless phone, which Elaine quickly pulled
from his hand and set back onto the counter. She propelled him to
the front door, pushed him out, and went back for a second cup of
coffee. She was greeted in the kitchen by their half-asleep French exchange student. Jean-Marc shuffled past the kitchen window, stopped
short at the sight of the gnomes, and peered through it again. "Zut
alors!" Elaine wordlessly poured him a large cup of coffee.

Red was too late to patch things up with Myrtle that morning.
She was already stomping her way to church for the United Methodist Women's duties he'd gotten her into. Myrtle's cane thumped
emphatically on the pavement in front of her, the robustness of
the sound giving her a sense of satisfaction. The skin that stretched
over her big bones was wrinkle-free ... just a few fine lines when
she smiled and frowned. She was tall and cut an imposing figure in
the classroom where she'd reined supreme for twenty-five years
before retiring more years ago than she cared to remember. She
smiled smugly at the thought of her gnome army greeting Red this
morning. If she'd wanted to get involved with United Methodist
Women, she'd have signed up herself.

United Methodist Women was synonymous with Parke Stockard, who seemed bent on taking over every church activity she could get involved with. Great. A morning with Parke certainly wouldn't
cure Myrtle's foul mood. She gave her cane another vicious whack
on the sidewalk, then pushed through the heavy wooden doors into
the sanctuary, checking her murderous thoughts at the door. Although someone clearly hadn't checked theirs.

Parke Stockard lay sprawled at the altar, sightless eyes wide
open. For once, Myrtle was glad to have her cane to lean on.

"Miss Myrtle! Here to help us out with United Methodist
Women?" The minister, Nathaniel Gluck, loped into the sanctuary,
long arms dangling awkwardly by his sides. He blanched when he
spotted the body by the altar, stopping in his tracks. Nathaniel
moved forward, then stopped again. His bony hands clutched his
throat and he made a choking, gasping sound before getting back in
control. "Merciful heavens! Oh..." He wheezed a trembling sigh.
"Dear. Miss Myrtle, we should leave. Should phone the police. Or an
ambulance. My office is just down the hall..." His hands flapped
helplessly in the air like a scrawny fledgling trying to fly off.

Myrtle had no intention of being shepherded away. "Don't worry
about me, Nathaniel. I'll just-um-stay here and make sure the
crime scene isn't tampered with. Parke's days of needing ambulances
are long gone. Just call Red." It was occasionally handy having a son
who was chief of police. The minister scuttled off to his office.

The crime scene had a film noir feel to it. The pulpit cast creepy
shadows over the dead blonde on the floor. Even the blood spatters
had an artful feel about them, with Parke's stray hairs matted down
just so. Roses lay scattered on the altar, on Parke, and on the floor,
a subtle reminder of the violent act. The only odd thing wasMyrtle squinted in disbelief-Parke's knit shirt was on inside-out.
How very un-Parkelike.

Her body sprawled dramatically in front of the altar with a broken crystal vase lying in splinters nearby. Myrtle moved closer, wondering what kind of information she could pick up before Red came
roaring over in his squad car and hustled her out of there as fast as
she could toddle.

Shocked by her daring, Myrtle bent down and placed a hand
on Parke's bare arm. Her body was still warm. The murder had
been very recent. The hush of the sanctuary took on a more sinister feel and the hairs on the back of Myrtle's neck stood on end.

Parke obviously died from blunt force trauma. But what weapon
had the killer used? The altar was a mess and the weapon could be
almost any of the heavy objects lying on it or nearby. Had the crystal
vase smashed on Parke's head or on the floor during a struggle? A
heavy brass collection plate could easily have been the weapon. Or
the huge, brass-footed candlesticks that lay overturned on the altar.

Myrtle leaned closer to investigate blood on the collection
plate, and noticed a cell phone nearly obscured by the avalanche of
roses. Putting down her cane, she took a tissue from her pocketbook and picked up the phone. "Good Myrtle" argued against
tampering with evidence. That was until "Bad Myrtle" pointed out
she had a God-given talent for solving puzzles. Crosswords, true,
but they could be just as cryptic as murders. She was assisting the
police. "Good Myrtle" shut up.

Myrtle scrolled through the phone's menu until she got to the
call log. Parke Stockard sure had lots of numbers on her contact
list, but Myrtle doubted they were all friends. Recent calls included
Althea Hayes, Benton Chambers, and Josh Tucker, her co-worker
at the Bradley Bugle. She tried listening to the voicemail messages,
but hung up with disappointment when prompted for a password. She eased the phone back where she'd found it and sat down in a
pew to wait for Nathaniel. Still looking around, she spotted a large
Bible a couple of feet away from her-definitely not a pew Bible,
judging from the papers and sticky notes protruding from it. She
slid across the wooden pew, opened the book, and saw Kitty Kirk's
name written in loopy, schoolgirl cursive in the front of the Bible.

She snapped the Bible shut when the door opened and sat demurely as Nathaniel entered the sanctuary. "Red's on his way," he
said. The minister glanced at the body and sighed. Wrinkling his
brow, he gingerly stepped up to the altar. "Odd," he said.

"What is?"

"The flowers. I don't remember roses in the arrangement this
morning." He frowned. "We have a member with a terrible allergy
to roses and Kitty is always so careful to avoid using them." He
seemed about to continue, then stopped short.

"I never dreamed she'd be murdered," he said in a hushed tone,
almost to himself.

"Were you worried something like this might happen?"

He shook his head emphatically. "Nothing like this. I'd have
told Red if I thought any harm would come to Parke. But she
didn't have many fans, I'm afraid."

Myrtle scowled in remembrance. "I'm not surprised."

"But her heart was in the right place," he insisted.

"I just remember that Dorothy Parker quote. `If you want to
know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it
to,"' said Myrtle.

Nathaniel smiled noncommittally and continued an anxious
vigil over the body. Discovering the body of the church's biggest
benefactor capped off the worst week he'd ever had at the church. He'd received phone calls all week complaining about the new
hymnals that Parke Stockard had donated. Last Sunday's service
featured the hymn "God of Our Fathers." In an effort at political
correctness, the modern hymnal had diplomatically changed the
words to "God of the Ages," much to the apparent displeasure of
most of the congregation.

Myrtle sniffed the air suddenly. She hadn't immediately noticed
in the flurry of discovering Parke's body, but she was certain she
smelled cigarette smoke in the sanctuary. As an ex-smoker, she was
attuned to even the slightest whiff. She pictured a stubble-jawed,
bald tough guy with a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his
sneering mouth, easily murdering Parke with one hand tied behind
his back for good sportsmanship. But the smell was too faint for
someone to have been smoking in the room. More likely the killer
had been smoking previously and Myrtle smelled the traces of
smoke from his clothing. It confirmed that Parke hadn't been dead
for very long.

The wail of a siren, the sound of gravel crunching as a car
swiftly pulled into the church parking lot, and a door slamming
interrupted their conversation. A minute later, Myrtle's son, the
town of Bradley's police chief, hurried in with one of his two deputies behind him. The hair that had given Red his nickname was
now heavily sprinkled with gray, which he attributed to worrying
over his mother, rather than the fact that he was in his mid-forties.
Myrtle was forty years older than Red, but sometimes he felt like
their roles were reversed. His tough look was enhanced by a jagged
scar that snaked down the side of his face. Red liked everyone to
assume it came from answering the call of duty, but the scar actually involved a homemade bike ramp, a helmetless Red, and some eight-year-old friends egging him on. His green eyes briefly swept
over the murder scene, halting at the sight of Myrtle.

"Mama!" His face flushed. "Are you determined to screw up my
day? First a return to gnome-land followed by discovering murdered bodies in churches?"

"Well, somebody had to discover the body, Red. At least you
know I'm not a suspect."

Red looked menacing, which wasn't difficult considering his
big-boned six-foot-four-inch frame. "I'm not so sure I do know
that, Mama. Seems like I remember Elaine telling me about your
beef with Parke Stockard."

Myrtle bristled. "Not a beef A... disagreement." Her yard gnomes
would be camping out for a while.

Red turned to look at the body once again. "I've put out a call
to the state police. And I need to get both of y'all out of the way
and get your statements from you."

Myrtle slowly moved toward the door, looking around her as
she walked.

"Get a move on, Mama."

"Don't be in such a hurry, Red," she responded huffily. "I need
to get my cane."

Red looked around, squinting his green eyes. "Well, where is it?
It should be in your hand. Or if not, it should be right by the sanctuary door. Right?" He took a deep breath to control his temper,
strode over a yard from Parke's body, and picked up Myrtle's cane.
"Because we don't interfere with crime scenes, do we?"

"For heaven's sake. I was just getting close to make sure the
poor woman wasn't still alive and needing an ambulance."

Red snorted. "I hardly think there was any doubt as to her vitals,
or lack of them." He grabbed her cane from the pew near Kitty's
Bible and herded Myrtle toward the sanctuary door where Nathaniel was still anxiously hovering. His hand tightened on Myrtle's arm
and she looked up to see a figure ducking out of sight through the
door.

"Hey! Stop-police!" bellowed Red, as he and his deputy moved
swiftly toward the exit. A moment later, Althea Hayes appeared,
well-dressed in a pale green jacket and flowing green skirt. She put a
trembling hand to her mouth when she saw Parke's body. Althea's
white hair was wound, as always, neatly in the back of her head in
what Myrtle supposed was a French twist, kept in place by a tortoiseshell clip. Myrtle was very envious of Althea's hair: it was thick
and well-behaved. Fine and uncooperative in her youth, Myrtle's
hair had become wispily contrary in her old age. She tamed it with
monthly perms that only succeeded in running more of her hair off.
Despite Althea's breathless appearance in the sanctuary, only a couple of tendrils had escaped her French twist. Myrtle was sure she
must resemble Einstein again by now-she'd run her hand through
her hair so many times since discovering Parke's body.